Chris Botto
Bio
A guy who lives in small-town Texas trying to make words mean something to a few people. Here's to all the creators out there, putting their heart on display for the World's eyes.
Stories (4)
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Skin in the Game
I saw him again tonight. This was the third time he'd come alone, or at least it seemed like he was alone. I've tried to think back, tried to remember if I'd seen him more than just the last three performances, but if he was here, I didn't file that memory away.
By Chris Botto4 years ago in Fiction
Two Distinct Knocks
The sounds of cutlery clinking china mingled with the low bass thumping through the speakers as people shouted cheek to cheek not really saying anything. Sitting alone, he stared over the white tablecloth, wrinkled, and folded from patrons’ knees as it blotted with spots of red wine. Seven empty chairs encircled half eaten chicken plates and lipstick smudged water glasses. His name plate remained in front of his table setting. Under his name, engraved into the heavy ivory card stock was the word, “SINGLE”. His gaze bounced from the table number, “23”, to the other identifying placards lazily keeping their places. The island of misfit toys, he thought to himself, picking up his scarlet letter and running his fingertip over the words.
By Chris Botto4 years ago in Humans
And So We Grow
“Thomas Pinkerton, do you think people are relegated to one great idea in their lifetime?” a confidently confused eleven year old voice asked. The golden red, fur covered head of Thomas Pinkerton lifted from his massive front paws cocking slightly to the left as if he just got a whiff of red meat on the grill. Thomas Pinkerton was no stranger to these almost precocious existential questions. Mickey O’Malley routinely sat under the same peach tree, wearing nearly the same outfit: white undershirt, black soccer shorts, and bare feet, in the very same position, on the same patch of dirtied grass. With his knees bent, Mickey leaned half his weight on the rough tree trunk releasing the other half through each of his elbows equally onto his knees. He stared downward at the part dirt part grass patch just beneath him where he habitually and involuntarily pulled the grass from its resting place one blade at a time. Mickey’s freckled face was shadowed by both the tree’s heavy foliage and his own bouncing red-brown curls. His face was shedding baby fat by the week, but for now he was half between boyhood and adolescence.
By Chris Botto4 years ago in Families
